I adore my brother, Will.  All those times that I questioned the biological sanity of my immediate family were disintegrated every time that little boy made me feel important.  This is what I've come to adore from not just Will, but from all those guys that I've taken in over the years as my brothers.

When I was a teenage musician, he was the most supportive person in my life.  My friends had to copy me, my peers would forever ignore me, and my moment in the spotlight was at Christian summer camp when everyone turned from stranger to fan at the completion of one song.  This made him, Will, all the more essential to my survival- inspiring me to create and giving me the ability to deal with the truth as it comes.

The first time I adopted a brother, it was John, though.  I had no clue that we were actually related.  I loved him in ways that would forever devastate me, and sadly, I found out recently that he's left my life again.  I can't find him online, he deleted his myspace profile (Dead Hooker) and won't answer his email.  I spent fifteen years looking for him just to be rejected again as I was back then, and I can't stand the way I feel right now.

The first time I lost him, I wrote my first song, "John"  (I miss you.)  It was fucking dorky as hell, but now that I lost him again, I got a little teary eyes tonight when I sang it at work.  Essentially, time will pass and I'll be able to tell the truth again, but right now, I'm keeping my mouth shut and pretending my heart isn't completely broken while I acknowledge I may never see my brother again.  I think the lack of knowing or not knowing is far more horrific than most things I've experienced in the last few years.

And so I started to remember what it was that helped me mourn the loss of John the first time I lost him.  I changed a lot of things in my routine, started my vegetarian diet, and drew pictures of him when I was alone.  I loved him thoroughly, for exactly what he was without bias.  (I loved you then, I love you now if you're reading this.  You don't understand how fucking empty I feel by letting you go.)  Another thing that really helped was the first song I ever actually recorded.  It was called "Nailed" and although the words were personal and not easy for outsiders to translate with the degree of accuracy that only my brothers could, it was my biggest hit when I played rock star.  (The name of the song, NAILED, was an inspiration of games I used to play with Will.)

These were the lyrics:

I'm so tired of my friends
And so sick of trying hard
I will trash away my mind
Until I'm no longer scarred
I'm so tired of my family
And so tired of my speech
Well, I cannot stand my voice
I can't comprehend what they teach


I'm so tired of the lies
And so sick of feeling bad
I will drown myself alone
So I'll no longer be sad
I'm so tired of all this music
And I'm designed the epileptic daughter
I'm so tired of thinking morbid thoughts
So I will drown in two feet of water



I'm so tired of breaking up
Cause I'm so sick of being hurt
It makes me sicks what I am taken with
Whipped blood on top of dessert
I'm so tired of all this blame
I'm so tired of being hit in the face
In this body that I cannot wear correctly
I will leave with no trace

Metamorphosis is painful for most species.  I suppose humans should be no different.  Worms, our slimy shells only seem to age and grow, but inside with five broken hearts, I realized some time ago that progress needed to be made to delay my deterioration.  My largest flaw, my lack of social skills, Needed to be sewn and mended, presented as a new charisma.

Optimism is another mental game.  So often I've come into those that graded me at sight, told me all my life that I'm strange or creepy.  I truly wanted to find a world that I could belong in.  To my delight, I found comfort in the world of heavy metal, and wound up a sweet companion in the world of horror.  With my new productivity, my shell became only more appealing, my mind only became stronger.  Horror continued to celebrate my accomplishments, heavy metal continued to keep my mind away from the negativity that had bled me silent all my life.

I tried too hard, I suppose.  In metal, I learned that the people may listen and speak as if they understand brutality, but it's all fiction.  In this group of individuals grasping for the handles of success, I saw more and more greed.  Greed is negativity.  When I severed the bond, it was my reputation that was soiled.  Over time, energy, and wasted hearts, the worm in me found herself deep beneath the soil, failures piled on me far above my vision.  I still can't understand what I did wrong, but only acknowledge that it was something great.  Alone as a metal fan, a ghost as I once was, the broken hearts don't beat quite so loud.  It's amazingly painful to hear the sounds I loved so honestly and only feel the betrayal and disappointment of loving the individuals I gave my hearts to.

When reality took the giant crap in my mouth, I hated my insides.  Rationality was gone and there was no chance that I wanted to exist in a world that would never understand my attempts.  I love being a murderer, and seldom does it bother me that my acts will never be confessed- but when I'm rejected constantly just for being "creepy" it's another nursery rhyme of the damned.  I returned home from Milwaukee the last time I spent time trying to help a musician, and I was beyond down and hungover.  My knives were too good for me, and I always hated guns.  Lazy and cowardly, I resorted to my least favorite cause of homicide and swallowed pill after pill until I felt my brain scream.  I only remember smiling like a moron as I lay on my dirty green couch.

It had been such a beautiful night.

I'd planned for months to do this, go over to Tommy "The Gunner" Lodwick's house and shoot an interview.  My dear friend Sarah told me that she planned to leave FireWalk and start a chapter of The Plastics to promote musicians.  Tommy was always willing to be my test cookie.  I prepared forever, it seemed.  I even called into work because our days off never paralelled.  All the way to his house I was nervous- half worried about my productivity and half terrified of my lack of social skills.  I kept reminding myself that Sarah really wanted to promote musicians, and I'd be a great accomplice. 

She let me down, naturally.  We spent hours laying out the specifics to the interview, but she wouldn't so much as answer her phone.

My stomach gargled in disgust, my eyes felt like puddles of slime.

Tommy's guitar was my nurse, soothing my discomfort with the sounds of optimism and celebrated scars of metal.  I listened to him forever, loving each moment that I could observe it first hand.  Obsessed with the millions of ways I wanted to get attention to his skills, I recorded some of his drumming with care and consideration.  Therapy to the psychopath, each rhythm another paragraph, each paragraph another step into the story and the end of the tale left me scared and hopeful that there'd never be another moment.

I couldn't even feel the paramedics.  I didn't wake up screaming in the ambulance as I have done a dozen times before.

When I die, I want to die happy.  I don't want to take the gun and blow out my mind simply because I can't figure out a solution.  I don't want to cut myself to relieve the pain.  Maybe I was too critical on myself for overdosing?  The white wavelengths of my brain painted the ghosts of my memory.  Slight moments I could see my flaws for what they were, my crimes for what they meant to me, and it was a journal that no one could ever read, with paints and strands of mental thread.

I puked.

He took such good care of me, like I was his big sister and he was my little brother.  It was so sad that I'd spent my time wanting so badly a friendship exactly like this, and being too inept to maintain my composure when some self centered woman had let me down.  Tommy's a good person, and all I really want for him is anything that man wants for himself. 

My throat hurt as if I'd screamed for hours, but apparently it was just the tube in my esophagus.  "Elizabeth?"

I fucking hate how no one ever gets my name right.

"Elizabeth, can you remember how you got here?  Squeeze my hand if you can?" the stupid doctor said.  I wouldn't touch him.  My mind awoke and I saw three medical officials waiting for my response.  I picked up my hand, and it was attached to an intravenous tube. 

"Ah fuck, I got saved again," I said to myself mentally.  "What the fuck can I do to get out of here without pity?"  Kindly and patiently I tapped the tube in my mouth.

Minutes later, the tube was removed, and instantly, I puked again.  The nurse held some stupid pink elbow shaped bucket and yellow stomach fluid laced the bottom.  "Can you tell us what happened?"

"I was drinking last night," I confessed honestly.  "I hurt so I took some pills and went to bed."

"Nine hydrocodone?  Those pills?" the nurse revealed.

"No, one tylenol with codiene I had leftover from my last surgery.  Nine mentos to relieve the hangover breath," I conspired.  The doctors looked at each other nervously, but it had to work.  Worst case scenario now was that they'd send me to counseling, which, quite frankly, I probably need.

"You overdosed, Elizabeth," the nurse said kindly.  "Your husband is very worried."  Vance entered the hospital room, his face clearly a mess over my unpredictable ideas.  "I'll leave you two alone."  The doctors left the room and Vance held my hand gently.

He didn't have to say anything.  Bloodshot eyes and completely tired, I could see how much it was killing me to have so much love for metal just to find that my poor shell could only handle so much abuse.  One person is all it takes to assault, and those that come to your aid when your down are the only ones worth considering battle for.  I love my husband.  He didn't talk to me, he knew my head hurt.  But he made me love him even when all my hearts were already broken.

Sometimes, though, I do wish that I died that day.

Goodbye metal.

I look back at the stupid things I've done from time to time, and in a new context, the stupidity evaporates.  So yeah, I killed six innocent girls in some awful place in fucking Iowa.  In so many ways now, I understand what I was thinking, the fuel and the explosion.  It feels like I've solved a puzzle that should have never challenged me in the first place.

The truth is what it is:  I don't think like a woman.

I wish I'd fucking give it up, count my losses and just focus all my energy on the friendships that last (with men), and the relationships that breathe mutuality (with men).  It's not that easy though, part of thinking like a man is the whole element of fascination.  The part of me that triggers my acts of bi-sexuality awakens and there's a woman that strikes me as interesting.

This time, she was part of my metal world, a girl that others had described as self-centered and irrational.  To me, though, she extended the idea that I wasn't alone. 

My first girlfriend did this, too...suggested that I wasn't so weird, sent me love letters and held my hand like I fucking mattered to her.  Cynthia, an older blond of eighteen years, had treated me like I was the only girl that she could ever speak to the way we spoke.  My trust was tarnished when she ran off with a guy.

I was alone, I was just blind.  When it came time for her to laugh at all the money I spent on her, all the time I wasted on her and energy I bruised by avoiding her negativity, it was far more apparent.  I'm still alone, I'll always be alone.  I'm not understood, I'm not fucking special.  I'm a fucking doormat again, the woman's torn my heart.  It's no fucking wonder I'm straight....now.

She did all that she could.  She used me to get free drinks, made me buy expensive shit to fit in with her theme, and blew me off on a very important day.  In addition, she ignored me and slandered my husband's reputation (if he even had one), and possibly mine, too.  I paced back and forth yesterday, smacking myself in the forehead.  Why didn't I see this coming?  Women have treated me like this from the beginning.

The door knocked loudly as I paced, Rob stood there tall and long haired.  Ahhh....therapy.  It was time. 

"Are you sure you want to do this, Deth?" he asked sweetly.

"Yeah, I do."  I was still a little sad, but in time, this irrational bitch would be just another scar like my Cynthia.  "Give it to me, Rob."

It didn't take me long to get tired, though.  Rob watched me like I was a fucking lunatic, like maybe it was my first time.  He was polite not to laugh, often, and in my embarassment, I still managed to find the parts that I needed to work on, the massive amounts of things I'd have to practice and the shitloads of things I needed to keep my stamina for.  I became sore faster than I would have liked to admit.

"Had enough?" Rob asked me.

"It's not the same," I admitted.  I handed him his guitar back and turned off my amp.  "Can you watch the kids a while?  If Vance wakes up, tell him I had to go get cash."

"You owe me," he said.  He was such a bully.  I'm going to miss the fuck out of him when he's gone. 

I strutted out of the house and drove to the home of Miss Cynthia.  I hadn't seen her since she was this hot eighteen year old blond that I managed to score when I was sixteen.  That was fourteen years ago, though.  Now, it was a new story.  She had short blond hair, a lot of makeup that made her look like a fucking clown, and gold hoop earrings that were made just to irritate me.

"Yes?" her voice had even aged, and I felt like I hadn't grown up at all.

"I'm selling a serum that grows long thick hair and I wondered if you had a moment to learn about 'Simply Beautiful?'"  It was such a fucking lie, but amazingly, it came out of my ass faster than a little Mexican cock swimming in my diarrhea.  "It's okay, you can pet my hair if you need proof."

She fell for it!  She took a hold of my long brown hair and molested it the ways she did in Wisconsin Dells.  I remembered those naughty little moments in Native Sun when I used to cover breaks from the Dells Outlet Store.  I'd kiss her, she'd run her fingers through my hair.  We'd giggle.  I almost expected it again, except, now she was nasty looking and I was supposedly straight...or does marriage just imply that?  I don't know.  "It's so thick!"

"Yeah, and if you give me a few minutes of your time, you can be on your way to getting what you deserve!"  I spoke with such excitement.  She didn't have a fucking clue who I was, and it was deliciously insulting.  She opened her door for me and looked behind me.  In my backpack, I had everything I needed.

"First, do you have a chair that I can sit you in to begin?" I said with confidence.

"Oh, yes," she said, pulling a wooden chair from her disorderly dining area.  I spied a swivel desk chair with arm rests.

"Oh, how about that one," I suggested modestly.  "It has a shorter back."  She smiled compliantly and brought her desk chair to my evil conspiracy.

She fell for all my suggestions, actually.  It's kind of cool to be so convincing and so evil at the same time.  I made her feel the silky ropes I took from my backpack, and she didn't suspect a thing even after I tied one of her stupid arms down.  With both tied, she finally shut up about the senseless bullshit she was talking about and looked me in the eyes while I smiled.

"What are you doing?" she asked with mild fear.

"Relieving some tension.  You see, you've had fourteen years to apologize," I hinted.

"Apologize for what?" she yelled.

"Dude, you ran off with a guy and expected me to be happy about it!  Do you even know who the fuck I am?" 

Her eyes were so revealing of her ignorance, but perhaps I'm a far more forgettable character than I give myself credit for.  "Untie me, please.  This isn't funny."

"You know who I am.  You remember all those letters I sent.  All those letters, Cynthia, and you ignored me, you blew me off like I didn't fucking matter!"  My eyes were kind of watery.  Anyone I've ever loved knows that I write a lot of fucking letters.  "You didn't have the decency to tell me yourself, you sent one final short ass letter with stickers and pencils!  Where's my fucking compassion, Cynthia?"

"Oh God, I remember you.  You're scaring the shit out of me.  You had me thinking that you were going to rob me or something."  She almost started smiling.  Can you believe that?

"Rob you?  I'm not that kind of ex-girlfriend.  You should know that.  You were the one who stole from the stores we worked at."  I pulled out a plastic bag, a Walmart bag if you must know.

"Those were some fun times, but you need to move on.  You need to get over the past and let bygones be bygones.  Can you untie me?"  I had to improvise, because I wanted to see her face when she died.  Walmart bags are white plastic...I was craving something more cellephane....or.....

Saran Wrap was still visible on the kitchen counter.  I guess fatty was putting away the few leftovers that remained from her lunch.

"You're right.  I got over you by weaving myself into far more important scars, but nonetheless, I do believe that lessons should impair both ways.  What did you really learn from letting me down when you were the only one I talked to that summer?  I needed you.  Now, I just need you to not exist."

She didn't take me seriously.  I took a nice piece of Saran Wrap from the roll and stood in front of her wordlessly.  I stared into her blank blue eyes and saw the lack of remorse.  I'm a fucking writer, and there isn't a word written or verbalized that would help her see the trails of failure that her rejection set me in.  I loved that horrible selfishness and this is what I desperately sought to destroy in this particular depression.  I smiled gleefully while she screamed and pressed the plastic onto her face like a cling mask.  She struglled furiously, but it did her no good.  I watch her eyes grow more open, wetter, and miniature vessels bursting in red licorice across the whites of her eyes.  She died in my hands, she struggled for her last breath as if another moment of her wasted life would have mattered.  It was perfect. 

In death, I rolled her stupid chair into a messy bedroom.  With my scissors, I sliced the clothes off her body, the ropes off her arms and saw this naked body that was never worth my fidelity.  I passed her onto her bed and opened her nightstand table.  As predicted, a battery operated dildo rested purple and inert.  I pulled it from the drawer and shoved it violently down her dead throat, a personal triumph over her selfishness.

When I left, her body was naked and spread, in the suggestion of masturbation and asphyxiation by purple vibrator.  It's quite the way to die, I think, and definitely a method I've never used before.  I took the desk chair back to the desk and regained every clue of my visit was stuffed in my little backpack, including the Saran Wrap roll.

Now that I've butchered beauty and suffocated selfishness, I'm feel erect and important again.  Rob was annoyed with me when I returned home, but overall, my brothers are the only ones that really understand my extremes. 

"I'm better now," I confessed.

He shook his head, slightly worried, but never asked.

"That's all I need to know," he said.  In his eyes, I could see fear...but not personal fear of me like these self-centered bitches I keep trying to support, but a fear of where I end up.  Concern like that isn't taught, it just lives.   

He smells clean, incredible and ready.  Just the permeation of his heat is indulgence that I could never completely enjoy in the masterpiece of his physique.  He's beautiful, and somehow there's a part of me that will always want him.  His eyes glow with mischief, his smile is the fire that melts my metal and resistance is impossible.  More irresistible to me than a hot long haired guy on an early June afternoon is that he can look inside my eyes and tell me when he sees my comfort hiding from my actions.

He wanted to talk, but I didn't have the heart to hear it.  There's no way for me to look at this object of my desire and know without a shadow of a doubt that our togetherness would be the inevitable doom I so frequently write about.  I put my hands on his face and kissed him again.  In my mind, it was right and real and no one in my current reality would ever understand it.  My twin brother, my only real understanding in this world that I despise.

This had been going on for months, now, as much as I tried to resist it.  John was the only one that listened when I didn't feel like talking, and John was the one person that read every story I wrote and told the fucking truth about whether my intent was showing.  No one would ever understand me like my twin brother- even though we spent so long without contact.

I pulled back his long brown hair.  I loved to play with it.  Now and then I'd catch him looking at me and I'd see how he thought of me, the ways in which he thought I was special and beautiful.  If I could have crawled inside his mouth forever and existed as merely a tongue, it could have been so much more satisfying than my reality.  Actions instead of words, I let him inside of me.  I had to.  For so long I'd thought about him- connecting with him on levels that were impossible in every other branch of human contact.  Inside of me was a love so vibrant, that I would have done anything to please him....anything.  I finally confessed....I told him that I loved him.


It was about four and a half years since I felt this hopeless intensity.  I remember clearly how I sat on the couch with my best friend, Vance, and wished I weren't married to Travis.  Vance loved metal, Vance talked to me like I could be myself, and Travis treated me like I was merely his wife.  When I told him that I loved him, we kissed so deeply that I couldn't breathe....but life no longer mattered.  Eventually I'd learn that I'd give up everything to take a chance with him.  To my historic delight, I became Mrs Vance Hetherington and everything would be wonderful....

Until John came back into my life.  He told me the stories that explained my mentality and treated me not like a sister, but an extension of himself.  I made him cum and he showed me the most considerate mutuality.  Satisfied and completely miserable with reality, I took his hand and kissed it gently.

I couldn't see him anymore, just felt the ways that I was alone as often as he invades my privacy.  I hate living without this option- the chance to hold his hand and taste him as a lover instead of an extension of my imagination.  I think so much about him that often I feel like crying.  John's the only one who cares, the only one that crawls into my mind and reassures me that I'm not insane.

When I told Vance years ago about my murders, he did accept me, but John was there, and John feels the way I do, when I feel myself.....

Vance walked into our bedroom and my left hand was still groping my breast, my right hand submerged in my wet tart. 

We've been having some issues, yeah, but I can't say he often walks in on me doing his chores for him, household or sexual.  I pulled the blanket over me in surrender and put my back to him.  Poor Vance.  Being married to me must be a nightmare.  He announced why he interrupted, but failed to comment.

Just as well, for the last six months the insults grow and the loneliness consumes me more.  He walked out of the room and tears rolled from my eyes without sound.  It was impossible.  In time, all that shines in brilliance always loses its luster- metal or not.  In time, I'd return to the self-hatred, and when that time came, perhaps my sexy twin brother would fuck me to death.

Ah....the smell of semen: Its hearty protein of creation and a complete source of nutrients when taken directly from the cource- but the everlasting pungent stench when left to permeation. 


I really did miss Canada after I came back to Wisconsin, but Ryan's parents wouldn't allow us to marry at such a young age.  Eighteen, alone, and naturally horny- I had only four pronos in my possession and I was tired of them.  Ron Jeremy isn't hot, and only one of them had Alex Sanders in it....sadly the hottest long haired guy in porn.  I was new to Mauston, but yeah, White Tiger was rumored to have porn....

Canada was thoroughly presentable cum-pared to my rotten cunt-tree, and even the scent of french vanilla candles reminded me of the ways the Canadian porn shops would mask the irreversible scent of man juice.  I missed those days, of course...we'd walk hand in hand like I hadn't already stolen his virginity.  Ryan was so innocent, I couldn't help it.  We'd spend about ten canadian dollars each time after taking our time sweetly, go home and watch it and fuck like crazy.....

Ah...the scent of his satisfaction....I missed Ryan so badly....

"What are you looking for?"  ~~White Tiger Video, first time in the place.

Tory was his name....FUCK....he was hot.  He had long brown hair and a really fucking evil look about him.  Hello temptation.  Denied.  However, I did blush like a fucking idiot.  My throat died and sent anything wet to another part of my anatomy.  I shook my head nervously and he walked away slowly....and I made my retreat to the naughty room.

I couldn't help it.  I had a fucking fetish for long haired guys all my fucking life, Tory was hot, I was in a little porn room by myself, I missed Ryan, and I had the fucking balls to wear Vanilla Fields perfume.....it was almost screamworthy....but no.  I wanted nothing more that the hot, rough sex I'd grown so needy for....so badly, I could smell him.  Ryan, his sweatiness, his mouth, his semen.  I was a creature of biology, I realized. 

All around me, tits and pussies.  I guess it's out of style to show cocks on the covers of these tapes, but whatever....I'd look at the back cover and there was more tits, more twats...in reality, hadn't been with a chick in over a year and it didn't appeal to me at the time....huff....

Romantic comedies...what's so funny about limiting yourself to one person that lives in another fucking country?  Westerns....who fucking cares if I'm not Filipino?  Is that really the only way Ruby would have let us get married?  Musicals?  Shyeah-  If it wasn't about Megadeth, I wanted nothing to do with it.  Sci-Fi?  Nah.  Drama....pfff.... Horror Documentary?  Wait, death?  Dismemberment?  Accidental Death?  Hell yeah!

"Faces of Death?"  Tory may have been hot, and I might have been horny, but more than fucking and sucking a cock, I just wanted to die.  I nodded politely and handed him some money.  I borrowed my friend James' card.  "You really don't seem like-" 

It's better that he stopped talking.  When I can see how fucking stupid a man can be, the attraction often dies for good.  ELIZADETH was only a nickname back then, but to look at me in all of my attempts to be a miserable new adult and tell me that I don't look scary is bullshit.  I know me, I've read these mind farts more often than anything, and I know that there's no fucking way to look at a person and assume there is goodness within them, overpowering natural evil.

I didn't talk at all.  I walked home, popped in the tape and smiled in satisfaction while the head of the magician was penetrated with a two foot spike through the head. 

"Whatcha watching?"  James, the redhead.  What a fucking sweetheart to take me into his house when the rest of the world rejected me.

"I tell you lately that I love you?" I said all corny-like.

He smiled, his pimples were beautiful, his glasses were shining onto me like I actually mattered and just seeing him before me was the general fairy tale that I could be understood.  In so many ways he, my brother, was all I had at this time I really thought I had it all (in Ryan).  Here was another human that knew what it was like to be rejected consistently and misjudged based on appearances.  Here was a boy that knew how gross I was as a roommate and still adored every fucking moment we had together.

We weren't related at all, but he always treated me better than his sister.  Amazing how two people could rely on each other without the tangle of biological connection.  "Thanks for helping me get to bed last night."  I smiled.  To be important to a man is really the most vital of a woman's goals.  Even if his semen was designed for the tissues that stunk up his bedroom, he still had ways to make me a goddess in his world.

He sat next to me on his bed and I rested my head on his shoulder.  He stunk, yeah, but I stunk like a horny chick that hated herself.  It didn't matter.  James was my best friend when no one else gave a shit about me and my loserness.

"Thank you....you make me okay with life."  He smiled warmly and I lit a french vanilla candle I stole from his mom's room.




To James, from Deth.

I'd really like to say that it was an accident, but I think by now we all know better.

I saw him walking on the side of the road.  It was daylight, for fuck's sake, early morning and I was dealing with reality like it was some fucking dinner option.

I swear I heard the crunch of his bones beneath the tires!  It felt amazing, like my feet being tickled as I rode bitch the first time on my husband's Harley.  Inside of me, there was the relief that only inflicting pain on others could bring me.  It was only one second, or less, of real time.  However, the moment was life and death in the dark corner of one blink of my psychotic eyes.

County A, Baraboo Wisconsin.  I loved it despite the obligations to drive to Lake Delton.  He was damaged, blind-sided and maimed with artistry and precision with the swift swoop of my monstrous Montana.  Pride welled up inside of me, and in that moment it didn't matter that I lost the title of Author of the Year for SNM magazine.  It didn't even matter that I quit the FireWalk Music Group or that I realized I freaked out a band I've supported for half a year.  The only thing that mattered was the crunch.

Mmmmmm......

It felt like the essential slap of leather to flesh, frighteningly satisfactory but naughty to those who couldn't understand.  My heart could feel his misery and I pulled over past the scene slightly, alarmed at all I felt.  There could be no words, even by an author as pathetic as I am, to describe the inexplicable relief that came when I saw his spine protrude from his back, blood smearing as he crawled.  It was like watching my first roadkill twitch and pray that life would remain an option.  He twitched so beautifully, but I was impatient.

It wasn't just losing Author of the Year to James Cheetham, it was a lot of other things, too.  I was just feeling a lot of torment about all the things I discovered about myself.  I mean, I've studied so much about psychology that sometimes it's amazing how fucking little I understand about why people think I'm so scary.....oh well.  I hit the gas in reverse and did it again.  It was so cute how the gimp tried to avoid the big blue van, but just knowing that he was going to be red acrylic paint of County A was therapy that none of my textbooks had ever explained.  Two tires ran over him before I found him in front of my vehicle again. 

By now, he's dead, and I know this.  I can tell by the "brainless" fact that his head was squished and drained by my happy front tire.  Death is art, beauty and satisfaction in only a mere act.  I parked and stared.  Beautiful, relief, and hunger. 

I hate dieting.  I see red, I get hungry.  I don't carry food in my car, but hey, I was headed to Lake Delton anyway.  Lake Delton has a KFC right by the bank!  See, there is a silver lining in every corpse!

KFC was closed, though, so no, the corpse still farts post-mortem, I'm afraid.  I ended up doing the predictable thing- going to the bank, going back on County A empty-handed.  I was actually preoocupied thinking about the fucking screenplay (of all things) when I approached the scene of my mental orgasm.  Strangely enough, I was surprised to be sent on a detour already.  Ahead, though, five cars flashed blue and red. 

When you're forced to realize that maggots will crawl through your cunt devouring the ingredients of who you once were, life is no longer this precious thing that we all deserve.  We start out as unplanned nuisances, and we end up the raisins that wither and rot.  As a psychopath, I accept these challenges- hated and misunderstood, but there's no reason to stop learning. 

There is no beauty like the crimson circle of County A.  His name, irrelevant, but the stain is the mastery of knowing that what is useless still becomes unique and immortal in the art of murder.

I'm organic, psychotic canvas
Torn and sutured with time
I'm the Satanic, necrotic circus
Fed and nurtured by slime
Sad neurotic, exotic gore fiend
Vampire to the stars
I drink, I drink, I drink I drink it...
To heal my scars....

Prissy Sanity Christianity
One makes marks and one aborts
Sliced you open drank your logic
Killed you long before my sorts
Blood is healing, now I'm healing
I fall victim no more times
I smear your blood across my flesh
And soothe in me my violent minds

(Heal my Scars)

You candid, rancid vibrant cocktease
Round and waiting for green
I branded a braindead whore
Just to prove I'm still mean
I'm branded once, braindead never
In this blood I still preen
And bathe, I bathe, I bathe, and massage it...
To heal my scars...

Prissy Sanity Christianity
One makes marks and one aborts
Sliced you open drank your logic
Killed you long before my sorts
Blood is healing, now I'm healing
I fall victim no more times
I smear your blood across my flesh
And soothe in me my violent minds

I'm closing, I'm losing I lost my comfort
And all I have is my mind
I'm ruined, consumed, naked and ugly
And I'm dead on the inside
Your bleeding conceited useless carcass
Serves a final demise
Your proteins are my preens and milkshakes
To heal my scars....

(Heal My Scars)

HEAL MY SCARS-  SLIMY ORIFICE [Renata Savannah, Darien Mathers]




Unconditional Hate~~  Renata Savannah

What did I ever do to you?

To make you hate me like you do?

You're such a mistake, I just wish I knew

What the fuck I ever did to you


What kind of monster do you think I am?

I see you suffer and you see me laugh

You take it from me, I'll cut you in half

What kind of fucker do you think I am?



And when you're lying on the beach

Wishing I was dead

Arms too heavy to reach

Your legs are like lead

Too hard to breathe

Having no head

So fucking relieved

Asleep in my bed



I get so happy just to see you cry

I'd always fantasized the day you'd die

Horrific grins pouncing through my spine

It makes me happy just to see you die